


Where it Began

by clouder (selfinduced)



Category: Merlin (BBC), Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-15
Updated: 2008-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selfinduced/pseuds/clouder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really sort of a team!love fic. Spoiler for episode 1x11, after Gwen's father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where it Began

Merlin kisses her once, quick and unsure.

-

They’re sitting by the fire, trying to thaw out their fingers after a long, grueling, winter day of errands and tasks that you’d think would warm you up but just tire you out.

They don’t always do this here.

No, sometimes it’s in Morgana’s quarters, or Arthur’s, usually with the four of them. (Gwen technically still owns her father’s house, but she hasn’t slept there since he left and no one’s asked; an extra cot just appeared in Merlin’s room and part of Morgana’s quarters are now appointed with all of her things. Gwen wants to thank them, but she can’t yet without making a blubbering fool of herself, and anyway, they seem to know already.)

But sometimes, when it’s just the two of them, it’s here, sitting by the hearth with Gaius’s books crowding in, comfortably silent.

(Merlin’s getting her to read. She’s known how to, between her father and Morgana, there just haven’t been so many books around _to_ read, so it’s not as if she’s had the practice, but Merlin’s always in several of them at once and she finds that some of the old ones are really just more like stories, beautiful and terrible and too strange to be true.

She knows it’s to distract her—sometimes it does—but she thinks maybe it’s also to share with her, and she treasures it the way she does almost everything about Merlin.

So little of him is this easily reached.)

Whey they first met, in the beginning, she had thought herself in love. Had thought herself finally there—able to join all the other girls in sighing over a boy, dreamy-eyed about his smile, and his muscles, and a wedding by the sea.

Merlin does have a nice smile, and Gwen isn’t really into muscles. But none of the things she’s supposed to want from that smile are there. The memory of the time she kissed him and he had blushed and responded that it was “More than fine,” doesn’t fill her with anything but vague embarrassment and discomfort.

When Merlin kisses her, her heart doesn’t pound, nor her skin thrum with want, and it would be okay if those things didn’t happen ever, but they do.

Just not with him.

Oh she loves Merlin alright, with all her heart, for all his endless support and his kindness and loyalty, his sweet nature and that charmingly strange sense of humor.

It made her feel at home with her own awkwardness with words as soon as they met, kindred souls, as they are still—serving nobility they actually liked as people, who remained nobility nonetheless.

(Though Merlin seems to forget this around Arthur quite often. It’s probably his village upbringing. Arthur’s getting used to it rather than setting about the impossible task of trying to change Merlin.)

At the end of the day Merlin understands better than anyone else her frustrations, her exhaustion, her fears. Is there to protect her, hide her, defend her—and yet he’s touched and surprised when she and the others do the same for him.

It’s lamentable really. He’ll never be any good with the sword but he’s so good-natured about her being better at it. He’s not the kind of boy to listen to women differently from men.

(Or nobility from servant, which seems to be rubbing off on Arthur just a little.)

More and more these days Gwen regrets the lack of sparks because Merlin’s—well, he, and Gaius by extension, have become family.

Merlin kissing her should have surprised no one, except, apparently, her and Merlin.

-

He’s turned away, back to the fire, eyes flickering uncertainly at her every so often, color high on his cheekbones.

Their eyes catch for a long, inexplicable, but not quite humiliating moment before dropping.

“Have you ever—you know—wanted—” she hears herself say, wondering how that was even close to the apology she had intended to give (but she’d detected the slightest hint of relief more than rejected hurt from him and it had stung a bit and now she’s babbling). “Someone you weren’t supposed to?”

Merlin glances quickly at her, confused. “I thought you—that I—but we’re not—not supposed to, I didn’t think?”

“I mean.” Gwen tries again, cursing her stupid, insubordinate mouth, “Have you—another woman? I mean man! Of course. Because you’re a man. Well, a boy, and” oh God. There it goes again. This has got to be the most awkward event in the history of ever.

Merlin is ducking his head and laughing softly. (She likes to think it a fond laugh, but narrows her eyes warningly just in case.)

“Have you ever—another boy?” she prods, unable to stop herself.

“Uh.” Merlin pauses in that way he often does when you ask him a simple yes or no question.

“Not that I’m saying I think you do—or I do, well, have feelings, that is—for another man. I mean—”

Merlin stares, eyes still crinkled with amusement.

“But, have you, um, known anyone, um, heard of it, ever?”

“Of two men?” he looks at her, “or two women. Being in love?”

Gwen nods, relieved yet somewhat miserable. Love. That sounds so intimidating.

“Well, sometimes the knights of Camelot, well, they, you know…with each other.” Merlin trails off, cheeks suddenly completely flushed. “Or! You know, Tilly and Mira—they’re both women. And everyone knows they’re just as married as Sally and Harold or, or, anyone.”

They both remember the last time Mira was found under Tilly’s petticoat in the south pantry, and of course, that time with Sally, Harold, the jam from Mercia and the disappearing pheasant, and share a simultaneous head-shake of not wanting to know. Ever.

“Anyway, even Geoffrey knows better than to try anything with either of them! They would flay him alive and the whole kitchen would just watch and probably clap.”

“But what about nobles? Besides just knights after battle, you know.” Now _she’s_ blushing. Thankfully, it’ll show a lot less on her than it does on him.

“Er—well.” Merlin sighs deeply, “They don’t usually marry, um, for love.”

She nods. The higher up you are the more important the connections and alliances; love is acceptable when it's convenient or discreet, but certainly not the norm.

“But Lady Natasha and Lady Katherine or Lady Maude and Lady Susan. Or,” Merlin turns to face her, slow and shy, “Lady Morgana, and, well, you.”

She keeps her head down, ears hot and blood rushing almost loud enough to drown Merlin out altogether.

“What do you mean?” she says stupidly for lack of anything else to say.

“You just—well, she looks at you—you look at each other—you have that talking with your eyes business going and you know each other—like Tilly and Mira—like, like people who are married. Or betrothed. I don’t mean that in a nasty way, like old Sir Gerthen, but you know, you take care of each other.”

“We are friends. I have been her maid since we were children.”

“You and I are friends.”

Gwen turns to him, brow creased.

“If I had been her, just now,” Merlin pauses to note the color of her cheeks and laughs, pointing, “I’m right!” he crows, “You’re in love! And it isn’t with me at all! How fickle you are!”

He laughs himself silly as Gwen looks around for something to hit him with.

“Admit it!” he huffs for breath, chortling like an _idiot_, “Oh how misled I was in saying you wouldn’t know the right man if he was standing right next to you! It wouldn’t have been a man at all!”

“Merlin! For the love of—shut up!” She hisses, finally finding a discarded quill to throw at his head, aim honed from being a blacksmith’s daughter and years of dagger-throwing practice with Morgana.

“What has he said now? I can have him thrown in the stocks, or find something else more appropriate to your liking,” Arthur’s voice comes from the doorway as Merlin is yelping from somewhere behind her.

It turns out he and Morgana had both found themselves in the kitchens for a late night snack and have thoughtfully filched some to bring over, in case Merlin or Gwen might be hungry.

Morgana holds out a scone (blueberry, his favorite) to Merlin, “Arthur pocketed these especially for you,” and grins widely, “Don’t worry, I shall protect you. Arthur may be all grown up now, but I can still whip him.”

“You cannot.” Arthur retorts, trying to snatch the pastry from Merlin for himself. “And besides, he’s _my_ manservant. I may do with him as I please.” His eyes are bright and happy as they hold on to Merlin’s.

“If only you please something other than my precious berries and custard, rightfully given me by the lady!” Merlin laughs and wrestles it out of his reach.

Gwen notices herself noticing for the first time how their fingers linger together longer than necessary, and thinks what an improbable pair she and Merlin make, with their inconvenient loves.

What an unusual menagerie, the four of them, King’s Ward and maid, Crown Prince and manservant, gathered around a fire on the bare stone floor, laughing over crumbling cheese without the help of wine.

Arthur is slipping grapes down the back of Merlin’s shirt, and Morgana is attempting to help by holding the platter hostage as Merlin does a funny dance that involves shaking and twisting his hands under his clothes for them before attempting to force feed Arthur the retrieved fruit.

He’s succeeding surprisingly well considering the size and strength the prince has on him.

It’s as if somehow they have all become something not unlike friends.

Or family.

**Author's Note:**

> TRUE REAL LIFE STORY: I wrote this back in 2008. Now, in 2010, as I'm archiving it, my most recent boss was a Kathy whose wife is Natasha. ... o_O ... MY FIC PREDICTS THE FUTURE!!!


End file.
